Page 106 of The Mortal Queen

The other mortal sovereigns had yet to arrive, so Aisling, Lir, Galad, Filverel, and Peitho chose their seats. Aisling did her best to capture Lir’s attention, but he evaded her. Standing near or watching from afar, but never allowing for a moment with her alone.

Gilrel placed herself behind Aisling’s chair. A position closest to the exits should Aisling struggle to temper herdraiochtonce more. For now that Nemed was aware of her abilities, none were certain what to expect of either him or therest of the mortal sovereigns. And because the fire hand knew, Filverel was even more irritable than usual, his tongue sharper than any sword forged by either fae or mortal hands.

“Although the damage has already been dealt, refrain from expressing yourdraiocht,mo Lúra,”—Filverel’s voice was as smooth as cream, but by now Aisling knew the venom it carried—“lest you slaughter every monarch in Rinn Dúin. Sidhe or human.”

“You’re in a bad temper, Fil,” Galad taunted him, sipping the mortal wine, his smile vanishing the moment the liquid touched his tongue. He grimaced, setting the glass back down. “Don’t try the wine. It’ll only worsen your mood.”

Both Filverel and Peitho opened their mouths to speak, but before they could utter a word, the curtains opened.

Aisling held her breath, watching the silhouette of a crowned man duck into their private extension. And once he was far enough into the room, the candlelight illuminated his features, gilding him.

Fínín Ó Bairr, the Bregganite king of the southernmost isle. Dressed in decadent robes, a bronze circlet sat upon his white head of hair. Hair that fanned around his shoulders and down his back, matching the impressive length of his beard. Two boars charging one another, embroidered across the Kinbreggan crest and sewn into his robes.

Lir, Filverel, and Galad rose from their chairs, so Aisling followed suit, unsure what the protocol for her role entailed. Peitho remained seated but perhaps that was because she was no queen yet. Only a princess until she married a mortal prince. Until she married Dagfin. Aisling shuddered.

He tipped his head towards Lir, meeting the fae king’s eyes. But before Fínín took his seat, his eyes flickered towards Aisling, flashing with something Aisling couldn’t identify: fear? Uncertainty? Loathing? Nemed had already debriefed the other mortal chieftains on her newfounddraiocht.

Feradach entered next, king of both Roktlingand of the most formidable naval fleets known to man; mortal soldiers who fought the aquatic Sidhe, merrows like Sakaala, Aisling now realized.

He wore an iron, naval crown surmounted with small replicas of Roktan ships, ships Dagfin had pointed out to Aisling off the coast of Roktling. Indeed, Feradach was a near mirror image of his son—stormy eyes, the same tousle of brown hair perfectly suited to bear a crown; only now Feradach’s was speckled with white on either side. And as if Aisling had thought him into existence, Peitho snapped an ivory fork between her fingers, prompting Dagfin’s entrance.

Both the Roktan king and prince bowed curtly, their faces taut with severity. But Dagfin didn’t so much as look at the fae king. Instead, he locked eyes with Aisling. Eyes that Aisling now understood why they’d appeared so different from the boy she’d once known—there was violence there. Shards of the Faerak gauntlet.

“Aisling.” He greeted her and only her. So as the Roktan prince took his seat beside his father, Aisling didn’t dare meet Lir’s eyes. She didn’t need to. She could feel the ire tightening his every muscle, darkening the room like a storm cloud. But to Aisling’s surprise, Lir grinned, a terrifying sight to behold given the anger she felt brewing.

Aisling herself was irate with the Roktan prince. For although she understood why he’d detained her, there was little that could forgive the stifling weight of iron trapping and choking her magic. Her temper was briefly distracted by the information he’d smuggled during their dance. The only grain of reconciliation between them, but to Aisling’s horror she didn’t trust him. The bond she’d once believed they shared was a ruse.

The lady of Aithirn, Ciar, entered, dressed in an ivory gown, arm linked with her son. Aisling had met the Aithirnian prince several times before: Sim Mac Dara. A boy whose pale, white hair rivalled not only his country’s banners and flags butalso the shade of his own mother’s twisted locks. His once carefree jubilance was dulled by the realities of adulthood: war and the weight of knowing he’d one day be king. But only once his mother died. For in Aithirn, succession of the crown was performed after the death of a monarch and no sooner.

The two paid their respects to Lir and Aisling, light eyes falling on Peitho as had all the rest before them. The Aithirnian queen regarded her with palpable disgust. Peitho’s expression crooked with a contempt that rivalled Ciar’s. That rivalled Clodagh’s as she entered beside Friseal, Nemed a step behind, a fire hand who grinned from ear to ear, his ruby crown winking in the candlelight.

Starn, Iarbonel, Annind, and Fergus entered last, Starn and Galad locking eyes briefly before each brother took their seats in silence. And silence is what persisted for what felt like an eternity. The pouring of wine a crash in the quiet.

Aisling wondered then how often those who sat around this table had met face to face when not painted in one another’s blood or on a battlefield. When they’d exchanged glances without a blade between them. But here they all sat, around a sole table, served the same spirits and lit by the same fires. Centuries of war, of violence, of burnt forests and ransacked villages, vegetating thickly in the silence, in the breath they all shared.

CHAPTER XXXIII

“Is this the fae whore our beloved prince is to marry?” Ciar’s pale eyes were sharp enough to cut.

Fergus choked on the fae lamb’s leg he’d dived into––he and Galad the only ones interested in devouring their meals rather than nudging it with their ivory forks like the rest of them. Not that the fair folk used such utensils.

“I recognize her,” Ciar continued, sliding her naked nails down the edge of her plate. “She was amongst those who pillaged Aithirn’s towns when I was but a child. Although I must admit, her face has changed now that it’s no longer painted with the purpled guts of my people.”

“I’m glad you remember me so fondly,” Peitho simpered, “and I you: the cowering princess shrieking till I nearly believed your fat head might pop. But please, now that we’re on familiar terms, please refer to me as the princess of Niltaor and mercenary for the southern Sidhe armies.”

Ciar hardened into stone, the only life in her otherwise still form was the loathing churning around her pupils as a single white curl fell from her tightly coiled braids.

“My name is Dagfin,” the Roktan prince piped, startling Ciar. He stood from his seat and bowed. “It’s an honor, princess. I look forward to our union and the change it’llpresage.”

Peitho didn’t move. Didn’t so much as uncross her arms as she met his eyes. It was difficult to tell what the fae princess was thinking. Even Aisling wasn’t entirely sure what to make of his greeting. The way he considered Peitho long after he’d taken his seat.

“Are you certain this is what you want Nemed?” Lir asked, leaning back in his chair as his ringed fingers toyed with the stem of his goblet.

“I was the one who requested another interracial union, wasn’t I? It’s for the best of both our kinds that we continue to blend our worlds. We won’t know true harmony until that’s a reality,” Nemed said, the scar along his face still bright red from the excitement earlier on in the night.

“I don’t think you’ve fully grasped just how rare the success of the first union was,” Filverel interjected, brushing one of his white braids over his shoulder. “What you’re asking for could incite more war should it not unravel the way you intend.”

And what were the odds, Aisling thought to herself, that the Forge had knotted not one but two interracial unions by the same thread?

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